


Kiss Me, Baby, Electrify Me

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex, feat. eurovision, romano the narcissist, spain does it under the desk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romano and Spain get community service detail on a Saturday afternoon. They make the best of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me, Baby, Electrify Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tumblr anon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+anon).



> [Originally on tumblr.](http://counterheist.tumblr.com/post/50304241950/kiss-me-baby-electrify-me)

"Love, oh love," Spain says out of the ( _light_ ) blue. "I gotta tell you how I feel about you."

Romano looks up slowly from an enormous compilation on the history of, well, him. With a deliberate, dramatic sense of timing, his eyebrows slide together and his mouth purses shut. "Don't you fucking dare," he whispers, glance darting out over the stacks surrounding their help desk "don't. You fucking. _Dare_."

Spain doesn't listen because he's a moron, and also because he's got enormous headphones on, and he's listening to _Germany_ 's entry, of all nations, Romano's going to puke, and why anyone ever thought giving him a real job was a good idea is a mystery to Romano. Of course, why anyone would ever put Romano in charge of a library, even the national library, even for a day, is beyond him too. It's only been two hours and already he's pretty much masturbating to himself. It's not his fault his land is so goddamn sexy, even the ink drawings of it people had to make before they had cameras. God, his _fields_. It's a good thing the desk is tall and Spain's an idiot and no one in Milan would ask a southerner for help anyway.

"I've never bought underwear for you," Spain continues, "but I could. Some of my pairs are fraying at the band, anyway, my housekeeper says I need to take better care of myself." He demonstrates this by rolling down the tops of his slacks, right there in full view of anyo- well, no, not anyone, mostly only Romano because of the desk, but _still_ \- and picking at the loose threads all the while humming along to the Eurovision mix tape he apparently made for himself.

With an aggravated huff, Romano slams his book shut and slaps Spain’s hands away from his boxers. No. Briefs. Those things are far too tight to be boxers notthatRomanocaresorislookingoranythingyouknowwhat.

Breathe.

He’s got to remember to breathe.

So he breathes, and glares at the people who are looking at them, now, because he made a loud noise in the middle of a quiet research library on a Saturday morning, and turns his head back to Spain. “You might skip around naked in _your_ country,” he spits, “but here we’re civilized.”

“Eh?” Spain ventures.

“It means keep your fucking clothes on, and turn down that terrible monstrosity you call music,” Romano says, all pique and resentment. He has this terrible feeling he’s going to be punished with more library duty because he made another scene, but this time it isn’t even his fault! Not that the last time was his fault either, come to think. The world is so fucking unfair he can’t even stand it.

“I think,” Spain says, making no move to do either thing Romano had commanded him to do, “you’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Mmmhm!”

“Of _what_?” Romano raises his eyebrows and runs his eyes over Spain’s tacky, cheap suit, and his scuffed shoes, and his purple plastic Walkman. He sniffs, and fiddles with his pearl cufflinks unconsciously. “Certainly not _you_.”

“Yes, me. And everybody else too.” After a bit of silence, Spain elaborates. “Because you weren’t in the competition for so long, but the rest of us were, and it’s really fun; especially when you get to see all the fancy costumes and England loses.”

At times like these, Romano wishes with all his heart that he didn’t do things that got him punished by his government like some disobedient schoolboy. And then he remembers doing those things that get him punished, every time, and then he doesn’t feel remorseful at all, in fact, has to stop himself from giggling, but. Even if it’s worth it, it doesn’t mean he has to sit down and take all this abuse. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about that stupid competition. Not one fuck at all.

Absolutely zero fucks are given by Romano, which is quite possibly why he reopens his book with just as much force as he’d used shutting it. He returns to a section with color photos of Molise and grumbles about losing his Saturday to the whims of stupid kids. Goddamned stupid 60-year-old kids, who do they think they are?

“Hey.”

Spain shifts his chair closer to Romano’s.

“Roma. Hey,” he says, and it’s only remarkable because it’s closer to a whisper than anything he’s said all day, “Roma.”

Romano ignores him, and fantasizes about jerking off as soon as he can get back to his apartment. Being stuck in the body of a twenty-something is better than the eternal fifteen he’d been plagued with before, but not by much. At least now totally random things ( _half-broken statues, Spain’s throat_ ) don’t get him worked up. But the only time he can go longer than an hour without feeling a twinge of _something_ is when he’s asleep. And maybe not even then.

“Can I look too?”

The book doesn’t fall out of Romano’s hands because he’s not _that_ surprised; the pictures of him are so fucking hot they almost approach how hot it actually was on the day they were taken, scorching, too-hot-to-move, unholy stifling heat. So. You know. Really handsome, in a hills and valleys kind of way. Cliffs and the seaside.

Is Spain propositioning him?

“Are you coming on to me in a library?” Romano says because if he doesn’t, Spain never will, “Like that? A dog could come on to me better than that. Keep your cock to yourself if you can’t do better than that,” he huffs, turning the page.

In response, Spain scoots a little bit closer. He leans over Romano’s shoulder, rests his chin there, and flips the page right back to where it had been. “I like that one,” he replies.

The inappropriate touching Romano fully expects doesn’t follow, and he is greatly disappointed. He’s about to initiate some himself when a patron actually walks up to their desk. She makes some vague, lost hand motions, and he makes some vague, ‘does it look like I can actually help you’ ones in return, and she tells him to watch his mouth, and he tells her to check the second floor, left of the main staircase, probably the second shelf from the bottom but frankly he’d recommend the bigger green book on the third shelf from the top because it’s better. She flounces away after giving him an approving little nod, and Romano doesn’t know why Spain has to look _so_ surprised that Romano can be helpful when he wants to. Hey!

Except then Spain hums a little, head still on Romano’s shoulder, and Romano realizes that look isn’t surprise, no, he knows exactly what that look is and he does not goddamn approve. “Not in public. Not again,” he hisses.

Spain starts nuzzling his neck because it’s a Saturday afternoon, a little too warm, and he has no tact at all. “I’m not the one who started it,” he hums, and he draws his finger down the page of Romano’s book in a way that’s so absolutely filthy even the humans would pick up on it if they bothered to look up and notice.

“Am I the only one who remembers why we’re here in the first place?”

“No,” Spain says, “that’s why we’re doing it again.” He pauses, lips moved somewhere near the shell of Romano’s left ear. “Except maybe quieter this time, because I have plans I can’t move next Saturday, you know, I’m having lunch with Belgium and I would feel really bad if I had to cancel on her.”

While he speaks, he slides his right hand down below the desk, around Romano’s back, casual as anything, and toys with the zip of Romano’s fly. _Motherfucker_.

“Y-you,” this suit isn’t new, and it’s not Romano’s favorite, but it’s still tailored and fuck him if he’s going to let Spain jack him off while he’s still wearing it. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Mmm,” Spain hums again, and if that’s not an agreement, nothing is.

So.

“Get under the desk.”

“…mmm?”

There are only two or three people on this side of the library, now, and they are all absorbed in their reading at tables at least ten meters away. That’s far enough, right? Right?

Right.

With surprisingly little pomp, for him, Romano turns, grabs Spain by the scruff of his neck, and shoves him underneath the desk. Somewhere off to their right, in the stacks, somebody sneezes. Other than that there is the same tranquil silence as there ever was. Romano doesn’t even squeak ( _much_ ) when Spain pinches his thigh in retribution. Instead he gives Spain a little kick and returns to his book.

He has to bite his lip when he feels the first touch at his crotch, and it’s entirely because his traitorous body is twenty-three. He feels the palm of a hand roll over him and depart, brushing down his left leg, joined by its fellow on the right. Maybe it’s Romano’s own fault that apparently Spain has decided to make this as frustrating as possible. Or maybe it’s Spain’s fault.

Romano’s just going to go with that.

Yes.

After another kick, this time to Spain’s gut, the hands return, squeezing and oh— they begin to massage him through the fabric of his slacks, and wasn’t the entire point of this _not_ to dirty his suit? R-right. Right, that was the point, still is, and. And now the fucker’s breathing on it, that complete _asshole_.

“Hurry up, will you,” Romano says to the air in front of him before turning another page and arriving on a different chapter entirely. Sicily, huh? “Don’t think I won’t kick you in the face.”

“Patience,” Spain whispers, “is a virtue you never did learn.”

He’s right.

“Go f-fuck yourself.”

“Mmm,” Spain says, which is entirely unfair, because all he’s doing is _mouthing_ , but he’s making it sound like he’s _sucking_ , and Romano’s staring at the pictures in front of him with such intensity it’s surprising they haven’t yet burst into flames. Is that smoke he sees at the edge of the page? “ _Mmmm_.”

His hands are massaging Romano’s thighs and he’s nuzzling, again, at least he’s gotten down to Romano’s silk, well Romano didn’t particularly care about this suit anyway, at least. At least no one’s looking this way, Romano thinks, bent over, forehead resting on the top of the desk. At least no one’s going to be able to shove him towards some kind of civic makeup for public indecency again.

At least.

At least he spots the security camera in the corner before the tape can be slipped onto his desk Monday morning, next to his coffee and all that useless paperwork they make him fill out.

 _Damn_.

**Author's Note:**

> Currently unedited, will do that eventually, holler if you find something. In other news, landscape photography as nation pornography will never be old to me. And I dare you to tell me Romano doesn't regularly look at pictures of himself.


End file.
